soulchaser

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On the morning of the race it looked as though the storm that had been thrashing against my tent all night had blown itself out. I could see blue skies in the distance, the air was cold and there was no wind. Perfect conditions. Up at 7.30 with 3 hours to kill before the start, I hovered about the race HQ desperately trying to squeeze some of the pasta mountain I had eaten the day before out of my system to no avail. I started to deeply regret the apple crumble and custard I had had for desert.

 

 

 

It is well known that I am king of the under prepared, but there is such a thing as too much preparation as well. I’d had 3 days in Llanberis with nothing to do but compensate for my lack of training by ‘carbo-loading’ (eating lots of pasta), and wondering whether or not I should run with a bumbag. As a result I was waddling about, feeling too fat to be nervous, but aware that a few pit stops were going to be necessary.

 

 

 

With nothing to do I took the bus to the start point at Nant-Peris, where the runners were beginning to accumulate. I seemed to be the youngest one there, but also the skinniest and least energetic looking. Everyone looked fit and keen while I felt like having a cup of tea and bit of a sit down. I immediately entered the queue for the portaloo, determined to get rid of some of the unnecessary weight I was carrying. Nothing doing. I didn’t want to hog the loos so I kept re-entering the queues and this became my warm up, but that was all it proved good for.

 

 

 

Cursing the custard for clogging me up, I started to prepare myself as the clock drew closer to the start. Knee-strap on, plasters over nipples, Vaseline on toes and down pants, and finally number pinned on chest. That felt good. I felt like a runner now, and I strapped my bumbag around my waist and headed for the starting line.

 

 

 

I had decided that, as I was documenting the marathons, and I was going to take it easy round this one, that I should take a camera, and so had stocked a waterproof smock, blister kit, spare knee support, digital camera, video camera and energy gels into a bumbag.

 

 

 

Standing in the crowd some 1500 strong I still felt vacant. I didn’t feel fired up or competitive, and I know this was because I was so ill-prepared. Then the gun went, and I trotted along with the crowd, under the banner and into enough space to start running, and suddenly adrenaline rushed through me as people cheered us on, and I finally entered the race, my mind switched on and my body felt light and buoyant.

 

 

 

After a mile or so of flat the course starts a long climb up to Pen-y-Pas. The bumbag was cumbersome and pressed my full bowels as I ran, and it turns out the last thing you want to do while running is take photos or video yourself! I was going steady, pacing myself, aware that my knee was weak and that I’d suffer horribly if I ran too fast now. Occasionally I found myself running behind an old man, or a really fat woman’s bottom, and I couldn’t help but run past them. Up we climbed running through stunning scenery, made dramatic by the now gathering clouds, dark and menacing and reforming for another attack.

 

 

 

At the top of the hill another crowd cheered us before the 8 mile descent to Bedgellert. Immediately after I began running downhill I felt my knee twinge. Not good. I slowed down into a gentle trot, happy to catch those passing me now on the way up the next hill. Downhill stretches are rough on the knees and mine started to hurt more and more as we ran on. But it was bearable, and I didn’t feel it was damaging. I was happy that it would last the duration.

 

 

 

At the bottom of the hill I decided it was time to put on the second knee support. I stopped, rummaged through my bumbag but couldn’t find it. I emptied everything out before I realised I’d left it behind. Idiot! No matter. Just take it easy. I got up and started running again but was brought to a standstill by incredible pain in my knee. In the minute that I had sat down my body had taken the opportunity to immobilize me in order to protect itself.

 

 

 

We were on a flat stretch now and I managed to coerce my knee into a run, believing it would loosen up again in time. People were passing me but that didn’t matter, just get round I thought. I had run a half-marathon without any bother and felt fine except my knee. My muscles weren’t sore, I wasn’t out of breath. Just get round.

 

 

 

My run had turned into a sort of Quasimodo lumber, but it was working. We went through Bedgellert and more cheering crowds uplifted everybody. Mile 14 and the hills start again. This one was about 2 miles of moderately steep road. I looked forward to it. Going up hadn’t been a problem before, but the change proved fatal for my knee. After a few paces I was in agony and the grief almost overwhelmed me. I very nearly had a Paula Radcliffe moment. This was proving to be difficult for the wrong reasons.

 

 

 

Running through muscle pain is one thing. Muscle will repair. I was expecting to feel the burn and hit the wall and all that and learn if I could take it or not, but this was my knee. Knee problems stay with you. I had another marathon to run in 4 weeks so I had to protect myself, but I had to finish this one. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists and just started lurching uphill. 12 miles to go. I couldn’t comprehend it. Just go. Just keep going.

 

 

 

The hill seemed to go on forever. All those fat women and ancient men started sailing past me. Great, fat, jiggling bums stuffed inside lycra shorts chiff-chaffed ahead of me, and skeletal pensioners who’s feet didn’t come off the ground wheezed into the distance. I just gritted and clenched and told myself that determination is determination, and I was determined not to cause permanent injury by going too fast. Up I hobbled.

 

 

 

Another injured runner caught me and we shared stories of our pain. At first it was great to have a companion, but he was depressed and miserable and his suffering spread from his knee to his foot to his whole leg until eventually he picked up and scuttled off ahead. Mine was now excruciating and he’d made me more aware of it than ever. Sucubus. I decided to run past him in defiance. I broke into a sort of limping jog which lasted about 5 paces before I almost came crashing down to the ground. A marshal asked me if I was OK, runners offered support, I was fine, no harm done, lesson learned.

 

 

 

The hill was over, but not for long. At mile 16 I had realised there were still 10 to go. That was shattering. But eventually the 20 mile marker came into view and it was like being on the home stretch. By now I was almost alone, right at the back of the field, half way up a mountainside, cold rain being driven by gathering winds. Desolate, bleak and lonely. This was not what I had expected. I had expected pain, but not misery. I knew I would finish and that was my only motivation.

 

 

 

I had no watch so I didn’t know how long it was taking me. This hill went up and up into the grey clouds above. The pain in my knee was overwhelming, but beneath it I was aware of a sensation in my body that was like an emptiness. It was tempting to suck down an energy gel, but I’d had one at mile 14 and it practically blinded me. It screwed my judgement and for ages afterwards I couldn’t think properly, as though I’d had a dozen shots of espresso. The last thing I needed up here was to feel like that. The path was rocky and muddy now, with ditches either side and about 25m visibility. I could be lost for hours if I tripped and fell. 

 

 

 

After a while of climbing a gang of stragglers formed, and there was failure in the air. It had a strengthening effect on me as I reacted against it, and I pushed ahead of the others until the top of this damned hill was in sight. Two heroes in high vis jackets handed me a cup of tea and told me I was great and nearly there: only 2 miles of treacherous rocky downhill paths and half a mile through the Llanberis town to go.

 

 

 

The sun seemed to rise when I started the downhill stretch. I can’t describe the pain as my knee jarred with the impact against the rocks, but I was elated and smiling again. More brave volunteers clapped and offered terrific praise as I hobbled down and down towards the finish. I passed people for the first time in hours. I wasn’t last! I came into the town centre and there were people again and they told me I was under 6 hours which felt terrific! I managed to run. I couldn’t believe it but my adrenaline and endorphins are amazing things and I actually managed to run, albeit in an ugly, deformed way, through the town and towards the finish line. I passed more people, including the whiner who’d left me for dead. I ran past and smiled and then the finish came into sight where, to my joy, there were still spectators, and they were still cheering and clapping nearly 6 hours later! I ran across the road and between the barriers and under the banner in what might almost be described as a sprint. Those cheering people made me feel like a hero returning from victory and I’d like to meet and thank every one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

I finished in 5hrs 38mins 39secs., number 1120 out of 1175 finishers and 1203 starters. Terrible. But I finished. And to everyone who told me that you could walk a marathon in 5 hours, let me say this: not around Snowdon! I was disappointed that I hadn’t prepared myself, and that my knee didn’t make the distance, but I’m consoled by the fact that I have 5 more to do. I just hope my knee holds out next time.

 

 

 

 

 

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